


Eight: A Prequel to Sugar Fix

by lyndysambora



Series: Sugar Fix [2]
Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-10-06 17:20:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20510669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyndysambora/pseuds/lyndysambora
Summary: A breakup. A realization. The start of three crazy weeks that will haunt them for the next twenty years.





	1. I

**I**

Just like that, it was over.

Her shiny brown curls bounced as she walked, each click of her boot heels landing on the sidewalk with an angry finality. She raised a hand and a taxi materialized out of nowhere to sweep her away. As she ducked into the back seat, she flicked her head around only for a half a moment, just long enough for Jon to see the concrete glint in her eyes. She wasn't sorry. 

Perhaps she _could_ have been sorry it turned out like it did. But she wasn't sorry for anything she'd said. She wasn't sorry for the way his heart was fragmenting behind his ribs, or the way he stood with one foot forward, his weight on it as though to start walking-- _running_\-- to catch up with her, if only his body would move.

She swung the door shut and the cab sped away with only her profile visible through the window, as she stared ahead, past the driver, out the windshield to whatever destination was next for her.

It took a full minute for Jon's lungs to thaw enough to allow a full breath. Then another. Each one came as a tiny surprise; that he was still capable of breathing startled him. It took another full minute for him to realize there was someone standing behind him. He knew it, but he still jumped when the hand rested on his shoulder. 

“Is she gone?" 

Feeling crept back into Jon's body, starting from the point of contact of that hand, and spreading through him inch by inch until he could give a small nod.

“Yeah."

“I'm sorry, man."

Jon turned around and his legs barely held beneath him. “It's okay. I'm a dumbfuck for thinking it could work."

Richie put his other hand on Jon's opposite shoulder and squeezed. “Come on, let's go back upstairs."

“I don't know if I can walk that far," Jon said, snorting softly as though it was funny somehow. 

“I'll help you," Richie said. “You can lean on me and pretend you're drunk."

Jon snorted again, and Richie smiled. “Funny how being sloshed is saving face compared to being tore up over a chick." He put his arm around Jon's body and Jon put one foot in front of the other, surprised, yet again, that this time he actually moved forward.

\- - - - -- - - - - -- - - - - -- - - -

“Sit down," Richie said, leading Jon to the love seat in the living room of his suite.

Jon sank into the cushions, his leaden arms drooped at his sides. He followed Richie with his eyes, but not his head, as the other man collected three tiny bottles of liquor from the mini-fridge in the bar, their necks threaded between the fingers of one hand,. Their bodies chattered against each other as he tucked the ice bucket in his elbow, deposited two cans of Coke into it, and grabbed two champagne flutes with his free hand. 

Making his way to the love seat, he dropped his quarry on the glass coffee table in front of them and sat down. Jon's eyes slid between his friend's hands as he worked, carefully funneling ice into the narrow mouths of the glasses. Richie opened one of the bottles and poured half of it over the ice in one of the flutes, leaving the other one dry for the moment. As he pulled the tab on one of the Cokes, Jon said, 

“What the hell is with the champagne glasses?"

The soda can cracked and hissed, a thin tendril of steam rising from it. Richie topped up both glasses and handed the one with the alcohol to Jon. 

“We're celebrating."

Jon frowned into his drink before downing half of it in one gulp. “Celebrating what?"

Propping his elbow on the back of the love seat and swirling his ice as best he could in such a skinny glass, Richie said, “That's the eleventh time the two of you have broken up. I believe that's some kind of record. Don't you think that's worth celebrating?"

Jon smiled, his eyes again trained into his glass. “It's pathetic is what it is."

“Meh. You'll get back together. You always do."

“I don't think so, man. Not this time."

“That's what you said last time. And the time before--"

“This time's different," Jon said, and drained his drink. Richie took the glass from his hand before he had a chance to set it down, and poured the remainder of the first liquor bottle into it before filling it with more Coke. Jon took it back and said, “You trying to get me shitfaced or something?"

“Yep."

“Why?"

“Isn't that what we always do when this happens?"

“Yeah, come to think of it,” Jon said, taking a slightly more conservative gulp of his freshened drink. He waved the glass toward Richie's. “So why are you just drinking Coke, Richie Cunningham?"

Shrugging, Richie said, “I don't know. I just feel like it, I guess."

Jon narrowed his eyes. “You're afraid you'll tell me what you really think. You'll get drunk and tell me what a fucking moron I am."

“When have I ever needed to be drunk to tell you that?"

“True," Jon said, and took another drink before slumping back into the couch cushions and closing his eyes. He and Dorothea had been fighting for most of the day, so he hadn't eaten since breakfast, a fact that came back to him as soon as he felt the beginnings of a buzz tingling through him after only one drink. 

“She told me she didn't love me,” he said.

“You know she didn't mean it,” Richie said.

“No, man. I think she did mean it. You didn't see her face when she said it."

“She's just mad."

“I've seen her mad before, Rich. This wasn't mad. This was worse. It was... indifferent. She doesn't care anymore."

Sighing, Jon finished his drink and set the glass down on the table before slumping back again. He felt Richie's hand grasp his shoulder, the buzz-tingle intensifying at the site of the squeeze. 

“I'm sorry."

“Don't worry about it, man. It wasn't about to work out. She--” Jon opened his eyes and sat up. “She doesn't _get_ it. She doesn't get _this_."

“What?"

Waving his hands around toward the room in general, Jon said, “This. This life. The music, the shows, the touring. She loved me, but not what I do. And what I do _is_ me, you know? That's kinda... that's kinda doomed from the start, don't you think?"

“Sucks, man."

“I mean-- Why can't she be more like me, huh? Shit, why can't she just be like you? I mean, you get it, you live it, too, and you still think it's the best fucking life in the world. We sit here and we laugh about shit that other people wouldn't think was funny, but it is, because it's our life. Why can't she be more like you?"

Richie laughed. “I think _you_ mighta been the one to break it off, then."

“Nah, I'd marry her then."

“How is it you're already drunk after just two?" Richie said, still laughing.

“Ooh. I have a better idea,” Jon said, the tingle working its way into his lips so he had to enunciate his words to keep from slurring them. “Why can't you just be a woman? Huh? That way I can just fuck you and be done with it."

“Man, I don't gotta be a woman for that."

This time, Jon laughed, and it felt like the weight of the day melting off him a little. He knew it would pummel him with the return of sobriety, but what the hell? 

“I guess not,” he managed, after his laughter had died down a little. But once the humor faded, even through the artificial feel-good of the booze he could feel the hurt waiting to assault him full force, so he distracted himself by saying the next thing that popped into his head. “How did you know it's been eleven times we've broken up? You keeping score or something?”

Richie twirled his barely-touched drink again, watching the ice spin. “I'm not _keeping score_. I just remember.”

“Yeah, but how?"

“How could I not?"

“How could you not? It's not like it happened to you or something."

“It did, though,” Richie said, and Jon noticed how tightly his fingers were closed around his drink, threatening to cave in the delicate glass. “It happened to me because it happened to you."

Jon closed his eyes and let the room spin around him for a moment. When he opened them, Richie was looking at him, his own eyes sort of frightened, like he might have said something wrong, humble at the idea of revealing compassion. 

When he leaned in, Richie met him halfway. Their lips crushed together, too hard, offset so Jon's lower lip was between Richie's, and they froze like that for what felt like hours while Jon's head swirled, threatening to scatter his thoughts too far away to reach. 

With what little coherence he maintained, he broke away, and pulled the glass from Richie's hand, setting it on the table next to his own, before climbing astride the other man's lap and going in for another kiss, his lips already open this time, and Richie's tongue found his a split second before their lips made contact. 

Jon fisted his hands in the sides of Richie's hair, raising up on his knees for leverage, forcing his friend's head back into the top of the love seat with the force of the onslaught. Richie's hands pressed into the muscles of his back, sliding down and bumping into the waistband of his jeans. 

It was this that seemed to break the spell, because Richie let go and turned his head away. “I should go and let you sleep,” he said, wriggling his way out from beneath Jon. “You've had a hard day, you need to sleep."

“I don't need--"

“I'll check on you in the morning, okay?" 

And for the second time that day, Jon watched a cascade of brunette hair retreat from him, except Richie didn't look back.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Then why'd you do it?"
> 
> “Why'd you like it?"
> 
> Richie grabbed Jon by the upper arms and shoved him against the door. What little air Jon had in his lungs puffed out on impact and he squeezed his eyes shut.

II

Jon chewed a corner of a slice of buttered and strawberry jellied toast, washed it down with too-hot coffee, and waited.

The clock on the nightstand announced the time as 8:19 a.m. Jon had given up pretending he wasn't watching it an hour before, and had let his eyes be drawn to its glow like insistent moths. Not that the clock could tell him anything he needed to know, since Richie hadn't appointed a specific time for when he'd show up to check on him-- and Jon knew he would-- but it was something to do to keep his mind occupied. 

His stomach growled again and he took another bite of toast. Manna from heaven. He wasn't hungover but the vodka had torn his brutally empty stomach to pieces, and it wasn't until he'd woken up a couple hours ago that he'd noticed how hungry he was. A shower and a visit from room-service later, and he was devouring sweet sticky toast like he'd never see it again. It was his fourth piece in ten minutes, his second cup of scalding coffee and where the hell was Richie, anyway? His eyes flickered toward the clock again. 8:22. Was it even possible for time to pass this slowly? How was it that--

A soft knock on the door interrupted the thought. Jon scrambled over the bed, his bare feet thumping to the floor and almost getting rug-burned, and flew to the door. He pressed his eye to the peephole. Richie waited on the other side, hands in pockets, turned and staring down the hallway in the direction from which he would have come, as though reconsidering his decision to be there. Jon yanked the door open before the convex image of Richie had time to disappear from view. 

“Hi," he said, swiping his ruffled hair back away from his face and shifting his weight to the other foot. Richie's eyebrows scrunched and he smiled a little. 

“Hi...” he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “You look... awake."

Jon touched his flushed cheek. “Oh, um. I was just-- doing jumping jacks."

Richie's tentative smile turned into a full-blown grin. “While eating breakfast?" He motioned to Jon's left hand, which still contained half a piece of toast that was now oozing jelly onto his oblivious fingers. 

“Oh, um--” Jon said, sweeping back across the room to deposit the damn toast back on the tray. “I, um, I meant I was doing jumping jacks _before_... You know. Before the-- toast."

_please lord, kill me now_

Still smiling, Richie watched Jon lick the jelly off his fingers as he crossed back toward the door. “Okay... I guess you're doing all right, then. I wanted to make sure you were all right."

“All right? Why wouldn't I be all right?"

“Um, I don't know. Because you just broke up with Dottie again, maybe?"

It took a moment for the statement to sink into the crevices of Jon's brain. “Oh, _that_. Well, um. No, I'm okay, I'm doing okay. I just, I wasn't think-- But yeah, I mean, it's bad and everything, but like you said, she's-- well, we've been through it a lot before, you know, and maybe..."

_Shut_ up, _Bongiovi_

“...maybe she just-- or we both could just probably do with having a little space."

He took a breath, feeling his cheeks burst into flames. Eyebrows scrunching again, Richie said, “Well, okay. I'm glad you're all right. I need to get my shit packed, though, so I'll catch up with you in a little bit.” He reached for the doorknob, and Jon opened his mouth before he even knew what words he could even use to fill in the blanks. 

“Wait. Um... you hungry? I have toast. I ordered a whole loaf."

Richie's eyes flickered from Jon's newly clean hand to the service tray in the middle of the bed, then back to Jon's face. “I can see that,” he chuckled. “But I'm all right, man." He put a hand on the knob and Jon said, 

“Wait. Just--" he grasped Richie's wrist and pulled it clear of the door. Richie stared at Jon's hand on his arm, refusing to look up at his friend's face this time. 

Jon shifted to the other foot again. “Can we just-- can we just talk a minute?"

Wriggling his wrist free of Jon's fist, Richie said, “No."

“What?"

“I don't want to talk about it, okay?"

“But--"

“I _said_ no, man. Just-- let it go--"

“Why are you--"

Richie's head snapped up, his eyes blazing. “Because I liked it, okay? I fucking liked it,” he hissed. “Happy?"

“You mean you--"

“Fuck off, man. You're the one who did it. You weren't _that_ fucking drunk--"

Jon's back straightened. “You're right, I _wasn't_ that fucking drunk!"

“Then why--"

“Because I wanted to, how's that? And you didn't seem to mind too much--"

“I'm not a fucking queer."

“Neither am I!"

“Then why'd you do it?"

“Why'd you like it?"

Richie grabbed Jon by the upper arms and shoved him against the door. What little air Jon had in his lungs puffed out on impact and he squeezed his eyes shut. The feel of Richie's lips on the curve of his neck caused a moan to bubble up in his throat, but he kept it restrained. Lips turned into teeth pressing into his flesh, and he dropped his head back against the door, his fingers clutching blindly at the other man's shoulders and arms, as Richie devoured random inches of his throat and ears. Jon's eyes rolled back behind the lids and his mouth fell open. Women-- smaller and weaker and infatuated as they inevitably were-- rarely took charge of him, and the sensations were more intoxicating than the vodka. That all-consuming feeling of utter helplessness sent a surge of blood to his groin that had him hard within a few seconds. 

His eyes popped open as Richie dragged him to the floor and pinned him there with the full length of his body. He smothered Jon's mouth with his own until Jon had to break away and gasp for air, even as he splayed his legs wider to allow Richie's hips between them. The other man was hard, too, now, and Jon thrust himself against that straining bulge; Richie pushed into him harder, rolling his hips upward against Jon, over and over. 

“Ah-- _god_\-- _fuck_\--" Jon panted, barely aware there were any actual words among the sounds coming from him, and he was just starting to wonder if he was going to actually come in his pants when Richie rolled off, and dropped onto his back next to him on the floor. Jon popped up on his elbow to see what was happening, but Richie had a forearm over his eyes, so Jon froze where he was. 

“What the _fuck_\--” Richie said, and Jon noticed with a tingle of fear that his friend sounded on the verge of tears. “What the fuck is _happening_, man?"

Jon did his best to ignore the way his body was still throbbing, and the way Richie's arousal was painfully obvious even through the barrier of his blue jeans. “I don't know, man,” he said, hoping his voice sounded level enough. “I have no idea."


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That memory that Richie obsesses over...

III

Jon watched the joint's paper flare and disintegrate, a supernova in the dimness as he dragged on it, and realized a bit too late that a drag long enough to study the rolling paper was simply too long. He yanked the thing out of his mouth and coughed until tiny bursts of white light formed in the blurry field of his vision. A giggling groupie whose name might have been Tawny, but Jon didn't remember, took the joint from him. Much more helpful than Richie, who had just rolled onto the floor, howling with laughter.

“Fuck-- you-- man--" Jon croaked between fits of hacking, then downed half a can of beer in one go to try to calm things down. 

“Dude, if you're gonna bogart it, just hang onto it, don't suck it all down at once," Richie said, as a groupie whose name might have been Justine, but whose tits seemed to constitute her entire identity anyway, slid off the couch and climbed astride Richie on the floor. “Oh, hello, honey," Richie said, before she commenced inhaling his face. 

Jon watched the nameless girl grind on his best friend, the five days that had passed since he'd ended up with Richie on the hotel suite floor feeling more like five minutes to him. A sliver of jealousy needled through him, starting in his stomach and working its way up to his throat, but he wrote it off as a quirk of the beer and turned his attention to the girl who might have been Tawny. 

“So what's your story, darlin'?" he asked, his words almost swallowed up in the thumping music.

Tawny lowered her overly mascaraed lashes and said, “Whatever you want it to be." She wiggled her body in closer to Jon's until her breasts were crushed against his arm, and he could feel her spearmint- and marijuana-scented breath on his neck. 

Jon waited for the usual reaction from his dick, but it was taking awhile, and in the mean time, his other brain found itself annoyed at the girl's purposeful lack of personality. 

“I'm serious,” he said, his lips moving slowly as the weed buzz hit him full force.

“So am I," Tawny cooed, her scarlet-lacquered fingernails trailing up and down Jon's chest, parting the hair between the undone shirt buttons, lightly scratching the skin beneath.

Jon's cock finally jumped into life, and he actually sighed with relief, but his mind was still doggedly fixed on the girl's answer to his question. 

“Where are you from, then?" he asked, wondering why he couldn't just shut up and fuck the woman. The lays didn't come much easier than this, and Richie did always say the best way to get over someone was to get _under_ someone else. 

“All over,” Tawny said in a voice that implied ‘all over’ meant ‘around the block'. 

Pressing his lips together, Jon wondered if it was _that much_ to ask for one of these chicks to make their pants a _little_ harder to dive into once in awhile. 

_that's what dorothea's for_

Fuck Dorothea, she wasn't exactly around anymore, was she?

_that's what richie's for_

Jon closed his eyes to prevent them from coasting toward the tangle of limbs on the floor next to him. Somebody must have slipped him something, or else laced the weed. Because that thought was fucking ridiculous. He shifted himself to face the girl. 

“Wow, really? Does 'all over' have a zip code?"

Tawny laughed, but in his peripheral vision, Jon saw Richie sit up, shifting his own groupie aside like an afterthought. 

“Hey, Jonny, you said you were gonna introduce me to Frank," he said, popping out from underneath the girl with the tits and grabbing Jon's upper arm. 

“Who the he--" Jon started to say, but Richie yanked him up off the couch, leaving Tawny to tumble halfway into the spot Jon had occupied.

“Let's go,” he said, his voice much more cheerful than the fingertips digging into the muscles of Jon's arm. He turned and said, “Don't forget about us, ladies, okay?"

“Okay,” the girls chirped in unison, already fluffing their hair and pulling lipsticks out of purses, as Richie dragged Jon to the opposite side of the room. He stopped at the bar, next to a giant wash tub that had held ice and countless cans of beer and soda four hours ago. The now-dwindling beverage supply floated aimlessly in a sea of water and empties.

“What the fuck was that?" Jon said, wrenching his arm out of Richie's grasp and casting a glance back through the haze of smoke that filled the room, at the girls who now sat side by side on the couch primping into a shared compact mirror.

“I could ask you the same thing," Richie said. 

“What's that supposed to mean?"

“It means you don’t gotta be an asshole to some chick just because she was trying to get laid. In case you forgot, that's why they're here."

“I didn't invite them."

Richie rolled his eyes. “Okay, fine, you didn't personally invite them. But they're invited _for_ us 'cause that's what we've always done, right? Right?"

“Don't you get tired of it, though?"

Groaning impatiently, Richie took a swig of his beer and looked around. At 4 am, the party was in its last throes, with three-quarters of the guests already having paired off into bedrooms and sundry partially-hidden corners of the suite, or else passed out on and around almost every available piece of furniture. 

Nobody Jon knew was still in sight, and though he'd done this at least a couple times a week, every week of every tour, tonight it struck him how weird and disjointed it all was. 

“I do,” Richie relented. “Sometimes I do. But it's not her fault, you know? Lay off."

Peals of laughter caught both their attention and they looked up to find Tawny and Justine among a knot of barely dressed women and a couple of roadies Jon barely recognized. A blond in a neon pink miniskirt was sprawled on her back on top of a mahogany sofa table, while a topless brunette who could barely stand splashed whiskey straight from the bottle onto her bared stomach. One of the guys in the group bent over her and slurped the liquor from her belly button, to the raucous cheers of the rest of the group. 

Jon drained the last of his beer and glanced around briefly for a place to put the empty can. Finally realizing that there were already empty cans strewn everywhere in sight, he dropped it on the floor and stomped on it. 

“Okay, it's not her fault,” he said, patting his pockets for a cigarette. “But come on." He waved toward the squealing, laughing cluster of people now crowded around a different human shot glass. The blond in the pink skirt was on her feet again, wiping absently at her belly and giggling while the guy who'd drank off her nibbled her neck. 

“Here," Richie said, pulling a cigarette and lighter from his own pocket and handing them to Jon. “Listen. I know this thing with Dot's got you all twisted up inside--"

“No. Rich--"

“No, just listen to me, will ya? Listen with your ears and not your mouth for a change."

Squinting his eyes, Jon lit up the cigarette and took a long pull off it. In the absence of a ready-made smart comment, he settled for, “Fine. Talk then."

Sighing, Richie said, “I get it. I really do. Dot taking off's gotten you thinking about how meaningless all the other chicks are."

Jon bent over to fish another can of beer from the wash tub and straightened up too fast for his head. He staggered a half-step back before regaining his footing. 

“How many of those you had tonight?" Richie asked, and Jon popped the top on it. 

“What's it to you?"

“Nothing, really. It's just weird for you, that's all."

Grunting an acknowledgment, Jon began to drink. Richie plucked the cigarette from his fingers and dragged on it. 

“Anyway, I understand," he said, allowing the smoke to roll out of his mouth along with the words. “And next time we don't have to come. We can just crash out or party in our rooms or something."

“What's this 'we' shit?” Jon said. Through the alcohol fog, he thought he saw Richie's face pink up a little, but he wasn't sure. 

“You know I don't do anything without you."

“Why not? Just because I don't give a shit doesn't mean you can't."

“It's not the same,” Richie said, grabbing another beer for himself. “What I mean is, I could take or leave this shit, too." He cracked the can and drank from it before motioning to the belly shot crowd that was, sure enough, dwindling like the rest of the crowd had. The last pair was heading off toward the bathroom, the only room that wasn't already occupied by fucking couples. “You gotta admit, it's kinda funny, though."

“What is?"

“I mean, all these chicks come here hoping to fuck the band or the roadies or whatever. I mean, what's so special, you know?”

Laughing, Jon brought his can up again and bumped himself in the chin with it before locating his mouth. 

Richie went on, “Hell, we've been playing how long? And now because we get up and do it on stage, a jillion chicks line up even just to fuck our sound guys."

Putting his can down, Jon crawled up onto the one stool that still remained with the bar, and sat on the counter. Dropping his head back onto Richie's shoulder, he said, “What's your name, cowboy? Oh, wait, I know _your_ name-- it's my own name I don't fucking remember.”

“Hello there,” Richie said, cupping his hands in front of Jon's chest as though feeling up huge tits, sending Jon into another fit of laughter. “Have I fucked you before?"

“I don't know,” Jon said, “I fuck so many guys I don't remember. Why don't I show you my pussy, you might recognize it better than my face."

Richie snorted into his hair, then caught his breath long enough to say, “Wait, I know you. You're Whatever-You-Want-My-Name-To-Be Jones. I _have_ fucked you before."

Jon shook his head firmly, sending it spinning. “How dare you! I am Wait-Til-I-Tell-My-Cousin-About-This-She'll-Be-Soooo-Jealous Smith."

“Right! Whatever-You-Want-My-Name-To-Be Jones is a redhead. Can't tell by your pussy when you shave it."

Jon attempted to lie down sensually along the bar, but ended up collapsing the last half of the way onto it. He lifted his shirt up to his ribs. “I forgive you but only because you're Richie-fucking-Sambora. Now, don't you wanna suck stuff outta my belly button, like everyone else, because it's so fucking new and we've never seen anything so stupid before in our lives?"

Richie laughed so hard, he had to grab the counter for support, and his head drooped down onto Jon's chest for a few moments. Finally, he stood up straight, holding his can of beer up and pointing to it like a commercial spokesperson. 

“Drunk off your ass, and can't think of any better way to pass the time? Belly shots are for the terminally out-of-better-ideas!" 

Jon howled with laughter, and Richie went on, “Eager for something that'll seem sexy to anyone who's totally sloshed and still make you look like a total moron to anyone with a couple brain cells still firing?"

“Yes, please, that's _totally_ me!” Jon squealed. “Tell me how, tell me how!"

Richie raised his can as high as his arm would take it above Jon and tipped it over. A stream of beer nailed Jon in the stomach and splashed out for a couple feet in all directions. Jon wiped his face and struggled to catch his breath as Richie tossed the can backward over his shoulder. 

“Bottom's up,” he said, then, thinking a moment, added, “Or maybe it would be tops down?"

Jon opened his mouth to respond, but Richie swooped down upon him, sealing his lips against Jon's skin. His tongue tickled over and inside Jon's navel, making Jon writhe and clutch at his hair, trying to push his head away. 

“Stop... stop!" he giggled, drawing his knees up. 

But Richie just sucked the skin harder, pulling it against his teeth now, and Jon vaguely wondered if he'd have a circle of tooth-shaped bruises around his belly button in the morning. But before the thought could fully coalesce, a jolt of electricity hit him in the crotch. 

He let go of Richie's hair and arched his back up into the assault. Richie stood up, sweeping his hair back from his face and sputtering. 

“I go' a 'air in mah mouf," he said, brushing his tongue with his fingers and it sent both of them into fresh fits of laughter.

“Should I shave it for you next time, baby?"

Satisfied that his mouth was de-haired, Richie opened it to respond, then snapped it closed again, his eyebrows lifting. “What do we have here?” he said, drawing his fingertips over the now-swollen front of Jon's pants. “I take it you're a fan of my belly shot prowess?”

“Shut it, Sambora. I'm only using you to get to the lead singer."

“Forget it," Richie said, unbuttoning Jon's jeans and poking around for the zipper pull beneath. “You want eaten right, you come to me.” He dragged the zipper down, and Jon's cock sprang from the confines.

“Holy shit--” Jon said, popping his head up and looking around for spectators. His brain whirled again, so he laid back down. “What are you doing? Someone's gonna see--"

Richie cast a cursory glance around at the room, then said, “Ain't nobody paying attention but you and me."

Though Jon hadn't seen anyone else who was still conscious, the incessant sound of sex noises came from all sides. 

“But--"

“Shut up," Richie said, and swallowed him whole. Jon thrust himself up into the other man's mouth, trying to get deeper, but Richie pushed his hips back down to the counter and pulled off. 

“Give me a break here," he giggled. 

“Fine," Jon said, his breath swept away at the end of the word as Richie closed his lips over the head of Jon's dick and suckled it haphazardly, his tongue darting in all directions, like a person might eat a lollipop. 

“_Shit_...” Jon groaned. “What the fuck are you-- oh GOD--" 

Pulling off again, Richie shushed him. “You trying to _make_ someone pay attention, or what?" he said, giving another quick look around to make sure nobody had noticed. 

But Jon's answer was swallowed up in a gasp as Richie dropped down on him again, pinning his hips to the counter so he couldn't move, sucking him much harder than he was ready for, straddling the border between pleasure and exquisite pain. Legs spasming, Jon writhed again, moaning out loud, loud enough he knew everyone could hear, and he just didn't give a shit. 

“Oh my god, YES! YE--”

Richie slapped a hand over his mouth, digging in with his fingertips in one cheek, his thumb up under Jon's chin, his middle fingers dipping between Jon's lips to restrain the sound. Jon gasped and groaned against the barrier, moving his hips a little now that one of Richie's hands was otherwise occupied. 

Without warning, a rush of heat exploded in him, and he squirted in Richie's unprepared mouth. Half the come slid back down Jon's cock, or ended up on Richie's lips, and even through his stupor, Jon was afraid his friend would freak out on him. 

But Richie just stood up, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth, as though nothing scarier than eating pussy had just happened to it. 

“You still want the lead singer?" he asked, helping Jon shove his still-hard dick back in his pants. 

“Fuck him," Jon said, and Richie smiled at the implication.


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We should wait--" Jon panted, drawing his knees up as Richie slipped supporting hands up under his ass. “-- for the-- for the hotel--"
> 
> “I want you now,” Richie growled into the skin beneath Jon's ear...

**IV**

Jon glanced around wildly, trying to determine if anyone was around, because he was running out of time to make sure. Richie's hand was spread in the center of Jon's chest, pushing him back, and Jon stumbled over his feet to walk backward at the same clip Richie's long legs were doing forward. Richie's chin was tilted down, his face angled toward the sight of his own hand, but his eyes were drawn up, pinning Jon's in their stare, his lip lightly bitten to one side.

“Rich--" Jon murmured, almost threateningly. The show was over, but the throbbing noises of the crowd were undiminished, as was the clatter of equipment cases being dragged from their neat stacks by roadies almost close enough to touch. There weren't many places to hide backstage, and none that would afford much privacy.

Looking behind him, just for a moment to see where he was headed, Jon's feet tangled again, and he slammed, shoulders-first, into a concrete block wall. He was tucked into a crevice between the corner of the room and the wall perpendicular to the one his back scraped against, and a stack of equipment cases at least seven feet high. Richie shoved the rest of him flush against the wall, thrusting his own body up against Jon's, molding into him and almost completely immobilizing him. 

“Rich--" Jon whispered, even as he wrapped his arms around Richie's sweaty shoulders. Fabric slid beneath his fingers, and he grabbed fistfuls to keep his place, the mingled scents of their sweat making him harder. “Rich, we're gonna get caught--"

“So?" Richie said, sucking a spot on Jon's neck, and Jon tried to hide his face in the other man's shoulder. He supposed if someone walked by (which was a big fucking possibility), they might think his hair belonged to a female groupie, but they wouldn't mistake his face. As soon as he thought that, he realized how his hands and arms, clutching Richie's back, were probably not going to pass for female, either. 

“We should wait--" Jon panted, drawing his knees up as Richie slipped supporting hands up under his ass. “-- for the-- for the hotel--"

“I want you now,” Richie growled into the skin beneath Jon's ear, before leaving wet, rough kisses along Jon's jaw, making a beeline for his mouth. Jon's feet in their distinctive cowboy boots scrabbled at the leather of Richie's pants, out in the open for anyone to recognize. The struggle to stay suspended, engaging all the muscles of Jon's inner legs and ass and crotch, sent little roils of pleasure through him, punctuated by each time he came close enough to rub himself against Richie's hard-on. 

“Fuck--" Jon hissed against Richie's mouth, and got his lower lip bitten softly. 

“Is that an invitation?"

The cold coil of nervousness barely had time to unwind in Jon's body before Richie was thrusting against him, up under the hardened knot in Jon's pants, and Jon wriggled into him, riding the curve of his friend's hardness. His feet dug into the small of Richie's back, a thin layer of spandex all that separated him from the slick leathered mound of the other man's groin.

Jon heaved himself against Richie's mouth again, pushing his tongue into the recesses, tasting teeth and gums and rippling tongue, prodding deep enough to make Richie bite him in self-defense. Jon granted him temporary reprieve from the oral exploration, lifting his chin so Richie could lick more of his skin. “You taste so good--" 

“So do you," Richie said into the hollow of Jon's throat, and the way his hips twitched, Jon knew he wasn't speaking of his lips or neck. 

“Wanna taste me again to make sure?" Jon said, and Richie grinned, his teeth pressing against Jon's adam's apple, making Jon think of a cartoon wolf.

“Ah, you're a selfish fuck, huh?"

He let go of one side of Jon's ass, and Jon scrambled to remain hoisted. Chuckling, Richie used the free hand to inch beneath the brown leather vest Jon wore. His fingernails lifted the sweat-soaked curls of hair as they passed through, then dug in as the fingers retracted back into a fist. A low groan slithered from Jon's throat and even he was unsure whether it was mostly constituted of pleasure or pain. 

Richie extended his fingers again, this time finding one of Jon's nipples and pinching it, pulling on it, and Jon tightened his legs up on Richie's body, yanking him in close enough to dry hump his belt buckle. 

“Oh my,” Richie said, sounding somehow more serious than his tone allowed. “What do we have here?"

“Don't-- stop--” Jon panted, wriggling himself against Richie until his cock shifted just enough to rub most of the head of it against the raised steel detail of the belt buckle, the spandex slippery between, so thin it was almost nothing. 

Richie's body lurched downward an inch or two, and Jon caught his breath, thinking the other man had lost his balance, but he found himself sliding down the wall as Richie sank to his knees. Grappling against him so he wouldn't lose contact, Jon realized he was actually whimpering in frustration. 

Once down on the floor, though, Richie grabbed Jon's ass and jerked him upward again, leaning back slightly to allow him ample room to climb back on. Jon folded his legs back and lodged his knees into the backs of Richie's splayed calves, and Richie grasped him harder. 

“Use me,” he said, and Jon grappled at his waist, pulling their bodies tight enough to hurt, bouncing against his belt, and the ridges of his pants, and the rock-solid bulge beneath. Richie had a hand under his vest again, and Jon moaned softly in anticipation of the contact, but the wolfish smile was back.

“What do you want, baby?" Richie purred. 

“You know what I want--"

“Tell me, Jonny." 

Jon opened his mouth to answer, but couldn't locate any words, all his attention consumed by the other man's fingertips, rough on his flesh, rolling one of the hardened peaks between them now, drawing it out.

“Tell me," Richie hissed. 

The demand poured from Jon without warning. “Suck them--" he breathed. “Oh-- god-- oh-- please--" The words popped rhythmically out of him as he bucked into Richie. 

“I already sucked something of yours," Richie said, moving to the other nipple and squeezing it. “Whatcha gonna give me in return?"

The _thunk_ of an equipment case being jerked down from the top of a stack less than ten feet from them made Jon scramble to his feet, pulling Richie with him. Richie poked his head out for a second. “He's gone," he reported. “You go out straight, and I'll go the other way here in a few seconds."

Jon nodded his understanding, and started walking, but Richie grabbed his arm. “Take off your vest."

“What?"

“Yeah, you need something to carry in front of you, man."

Jon looked down at the unabated swelling in his pants and wondered how the hell he was going to make it to the hotel without losing his fucking mind.


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chemistry lessons back at the hotel.

**V**

Jon let his head sink back against the sleek leather of the car's backseat, and closed his eyes. The evening was cold, colder than Jon had anticipated, and though the cars were always preheated to receive the band members, Jon still shivered a little when his damp hair touched the leather.

He had put on a sweatshirt backstage, but decided against getting a shower until he was at the hotel. Still carrying the vest in front of him, he had slipped as quickly from the building as possible and, in the process, lost track of Richie. Most of the time they shared a car, but Richie was nowhere in sight, and as soon as Jon had ducked into the car, the driver had taken off. It was common practice, to ensure his safety, and Jon hadn't protested, figuring Richie was either grabbing a shower in the dressing room, had already found himself in another car, or was busy with some groupie, possibly tucked into the same corner he and Jon had occupied only moments before, but not fearing discovery since the arms that would be wrapped around his neck would be unmistakably female this time.

Jon turned his head, dropped the side of it against the seat so he faced the street his driver was exiting onto, and thought of Dot. It had been twelve days since he'd watched her disappear in that taxi, and she hadn't once tried to get a hold of him. Jon hadn't tried to get a hold of her, either. As he watched the streetlights and neon business signs of the city flash by him in a blur, he was surprised to realize that he hadn't much thought of her.

\- - - -- - - - - - --- - - - -- - - - - - - -- -

After sitting on the bed, staring stupidly at the suite phone for more than half an hour (with occasional breaks to glance at the door, as though he could will a knock on it through sheer mental determination), Jon sighed and heaved himself up. For whatever reason, Richie wasn't going to show, and as Jon peeled off his stage clothes on his way to the bathroom, he pretended not to feel the heat bubbling up into his face. How stupid could he be, not to think that Richie would be fucking some pretty little stranger right this moment? To think that Richie, the single biggest man-whore Jon had ever known, would somehow pass up the throngs of half-naked young women clamoring for his attention, because a couple of clumsy encounters with another man would capture his imagination that much?

_We should wait for the hotel_, Jon had said. _I want you now_, Richie had responded, and at that moment, Jon had thought it was proof of what was happening, proof that Richie was just as much into it as Jon was, but which he now realized was simply Richie's way of saying, _this is it, this is all you get, at the hotel I'll have my dick in two blonds and a redhead just in the time it takes you to realize I'm not gonna show up at your room--_

“Fuck it," Jon said, his voice echoing a little around the spacious marble of the bathroom, and made sure not to accidentally glimpse himself in the mirror before he got in the shower. If he didn't see the flush in his face, he could say it was never there. Why hadn’t he been thinking of Dot in all this time? He wondered if she was still awake.

\- - - - - -- - - - - - - - -- - - -- - - - - -- - 

After his shower, Jon briefly considered getting dressed again and joining whatever party was going on tonight. In the end, he just pulled on the over-sized tee shirt and sweatpants that constituted his pajamas, and rubbed at his hair with a towel until it fuzzed out from his head. He finally dropped the towel on the floor and ran his hands through his tangled curls and opened the bathroom door to find Richie sitting on the edge of his bed. He was dressed similarly, his hair also damp from a shower, his gaze on the floor a few feet in front of him.

“You came," Jon said.

“I almost didn't.”

Jon's back straightened but he remained quiet. Richie looked up. 

“I was, umm..." he began, then paused and chuckled quietly, returning his gaze to the carpet. “I was kinda scared."

It took a moment for the comment to penetrate Jon's brain, and he said, “I thought you forgot. I figured you was fuckin some chick."

“Listen very carefully, because I'll only say it once: I have never been fucked up in the head enough to forget something like that."

Jon's breath rushed out in a laugh, and he crossed the room to sit next to Richie. For several moments, the quiet gelled around them before he quietly asked, “Why were you scared?"

Richie opened his mouth to answer, but thought better of it and just shrugged instead.

Jon turned his attention to his hands laced together between his knees. “I'm scared, too," he said.

Nodding slowly, as though some great truth were gradually making itself available to him, Richie said, “So now what?"

A laundry list of possible responses unfurled in Jon's mind, but none of them explained the buzzing in his head, the way his thoughts melted this way and that, a kaleidoscope of shit he couldn't put words to. So what came out of his mouth was, “Put your arms up."

“What?"

“Just put them up."

Richie's eyebrows scrunched, and he lifted his arms up toward the sides of his head, his elbows bent, fingers curled into loose fists. The position was half-assed and doubtful because, to Jon's surprise, Richie somehow had no idea what was going to happen. For a moment, there was the option to back out.

Except it wasn't really an option.

Jon grasped the bottom of Richie's tee shirt and pulled it up, watching the other man's stomach as it was exposed, and the way it fluttered with quickened breathing. Part of Jon expected him to keep his elbows folded, to resist. But Richie stretched his arms carefully upward, allowing Jon to finish peeling his shirt off, inside out. Then he cleared his throat. 

“Well. Um."

His cheeks were washed bright pink, and Jon grinned, feeling the heat consume his own face again. “Yeah. Shut up, okay?"

Richie grinned back, and Jon kissed him, but their lips refused to meet properly, still stretched into smiles they couldn't seem to get rid of. Both of them dissolved in giggles, but they kept their mouths stubbornly pressed together until the bouncing of their bodies caused their teeth to clatter against one another. 

When they pulled apart, Richie seized the bottom of Jon's shirt and yanked it upward. Jon lifted his arms. 

“Okay," he said, as his shirt landed in a little pile on the floor. “Okay, then."

As though previously discussed and agreed upon, they both crawled toward the head of the bed, far up enough to lean into the pile of pillows at the headboard. There they sat in silence. Richie drew his knees up to his chest and rested his cheek on one. “I don't remember this chapter in the life manual," he finally said. 

“I think Sister Mary Clare tore it out of my copy in fourth grade." 

Richie snorted and moved his chin to his knee, so he was staring straight out into the room, the side of his face toward Jon. “All right. So... I guess, then... well, what do you want to do?”

Jon knew exactly what he wanted to do, but wasn't sure if the words would escape the stickiness of his throat. “Do I give some 'aw shucks' answer here, or is this where I just say whatever the fuck's on my mind?"

Turning to face him again, Richie said, “You can say whatever you want, but I can't guarantee I'll be able to be... you know... _sophisticated_ about it."

“Fair enough,” Jon said, then pulled his own knees up to his chin, fully aware that he was assuming the meek posture to try and neutralize what was getting ready to come out of his mouth. “I want to do to you what you did to me. At the party."

Richie's face flamed so bright Jon thought he could feel the heat of it from where he sat. Denying the urge to backpedal, to pretend he was joking, or to add an addendum about it being okay if Richie didn't want to, Jon watched his friend's face go from shocked and red, to disbelieving and pink, to finally capable of speech.

“Are you... are you sure? Like-- are you _sure?_"

“Why? Was it that bad?"

A small laugh escaped the vacuum of Richie's nervous lungs. He stretched his legs out and leaned back a bit. “Actually, it wasn't."

“Why'd you ask that then?"

“I don't know, man. I just-- I don't know."

Jon sighed and plucked at the ankle hem of his pants. “Okay, I guess a better question is, would you let me? If I tried, I mean?” He watched the way Richie's bare feet twisted against each other, first one on top, then the other, each set of toes curling against the opposite foot, and he wondered if the man was aware he was even doing it. 

“If I say yes, can I still reserve the right to back out later?"

“I guess so, but-- why do you think you'd back out?"

“Man, I don't know. I think that was the extra credit for that chapter."

Climbing up onto his knees, Jon said, “Okay, um. Lay down."

Richie stared him down for a minute, as though challenging him to change his mind, and when that didn’t work, he said, “You know I was only kidding when I asked what you were giving me." 

“Are we gonna do this or not?" Jon asked.

“Bossy fucker," Richie muttered, scooting down until his head was in the pillows. He folded his hands neatly over his stomach and crossed his ankles. Jon grinned. 

“All right then, I guess... here we go,” Jon said, mostly to himself, and yanked Richie's pants down before he had a chance to freeze up. A sharp exhale puffed out of his friend. 

“Damn," he said, but he didn't fight. He hadn't worn underwear. Jon sat back on his heels as though to admire his handiwork, and bought a little time in the process. 

The shade on the bedside lamp threw pools of dim light and velvety shadows over the surface of Richie's body. The slender line of hair starting below his belly button stretched down into a patch of dark curls illuminated by the warm yellow light, his dick half hard in the midst of it. Jon felt a pang of empathy for the other man's nervousness, but it was buffered by a little tingle of power.

“What's wrong?" he asked, sliding his hands up the tops of Richie's thighs, dragging over the coarse hairs there. Richie's cock twitched.

“I, uh..." he started, then chuckled, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes. “It's just-- You're looking at me like... I don't know."

“Like what?” Jon asked, letting his palms rub over the softer spots on the insides of those thighs, his fingertips close enough to brush through the edges of the thatch of hair between them, touch the tender skin of Richie's balls. 

“I don't know. Forget it."

“Do you want me to stop?"

Richie laughed again, softly. “I'm not _completely_ terrified yet, so I guess I'm still good for now."

His face burning, Jon settled himself between Richie's knees. He didn't know if the low light was enough for his friend to see the state of his cheeks, but he wasn't taking any chances. He lowered himself to his elbows and buried his face. 

Richie still smelled like soap, but beneath the crisp scent of a recent shower was the faint warm and musky scent Jon recognized from himself when he was horny; it was the same but different in a way that made him bury his face deeper and breathe in, and finally slip his tongue out for the first time, to see what that scent tasted like. Richie quivered at the touch of Jon's tongue, his thighs squeezing together against the sides of Jon's head as though to urge him away, but Jon shoved his legs farther apart, and pulled the skin of Richie's balls between his lips. 

His cock throbbed as he realized the smell was somehow similar to pussy, a very mild and dry version of pussy, and he wanted to play with himself, but Richie was still making a halfhearted effort to keep his legs closed, and Jon couldn't spare the hand yet. 

He wedged his shoulders between the man's thighs as he moved up. Heart thrumming behind his ribs, sending fingers of its vibration out into the far reaches of his body, he touched the tip of his tongue to the underside of Richie's dick-- just a touch, allowing the surface of it to conform to the man's skin, taking it in. He was surprised to find, after that unmistakable scent of sex that had brought his own dick into tingling life, that there wasn't much of a taste there, short of what his sense of smell manufactured. 

Richie squirmed a little beneath him. “It's okay, baby," Jon found himself saying, the words ringing almost painfully tender to his own ears, before he used the tip of his tongue to probe the little V-scar under the head of Richie's cock. Richie sucked in a small breath, and in his peripheral vision, Jon could see the man's hands grasping wads of blanket. Another jolt of heat hit him in the crotch and he spread his body out a bit, pushing himself against the bed, but the angle wasn't good enough to allow much relief. 

He put his mouth over the top third or so of Richie's dick, running his tongue in unbroken circles around the ridge, once, twice, his mouth watering enough now to thoroughly soak the flesh inside it. Richie made a small noise that may have been the beginning of a word, but ended up a soft grunt to accompany another bout of squirming. Jon returned his exploration to the sensitive V underneath for a moment before drawing it up toward the slit at the tip; here he found flavor for the first time, a soft and formless kind of sweetness. His own mouth had imparted so much wetness that he couldn't be sure if Richie was producing any of his own, but Jon suspected that was the case. Part of him was thrilled he could create such a rapid reaction, but a larger part of him was damned if he was going to let it be over that quickly. 

He pulled off and turned his attention to the other man's shivering thighs, latching his mouth onto the smooth skin of the inside of one of them, sucking it hard against his teeth, finally drawing words from Richie. 

“Do it harder--" he moaned, and Jon bit down on the skin, surprised at the request even as he pushed his own groin deeper into the blankets, trying to quell the flames there. Richie's back arched. “Yes!” he panted. “_God--"_

Jon released the abused skin beneath his mouth and dropped down on Richie's cock again, this time as far as he could, letting it bump the back of his throat. He was vaguely surprised that his gag reflex didn't kick in, but then, he was well aware of what a good, stiff dick could do to take away inhibition. 

Richie grabbed his hair, pulling hard enough to make Jon yelp; the sound was too muffled to decipher, but he bit down a little in instinctual retaliation. Richie groaned, a sound something between pleasure and pain, arcing higher in pitch until it was almost a cry. He spread his thighs and arched up higher into Jon's assault, that gentle sweetness leaking from him again. 

The hot, wet sensation that filled Jon's pelvis swelled and burst with no warning, and his body shuddered in climax. He whimpered against Richie's cock, sucking it hard, rubbing his tongue over it, trying to taste every bit, and suddenly Richie was spasming under him, the hot salty-sweet liquid gushing toward Jon’s throat. Jon squeezed his eyes shut and started swallowing, devouring the fluid in three neat swallows, surprising himself with how expert he seemed. 

The self-congratulations had barely registered when Richie made a growling sound and flipped Jon on his back. Jon's body slammed into the bed, making the mattress bounce wildly, and he gasped, his breath cut short by Richie's mouth on his, Richie's tongue filling the space his dick had occupied. Moaning into the kiss, Jon felt his friend's hand scrabbling at the waistband of his pants, pushing down inside--

Richie popped his lips off Jon's and stared at him, his eyes round, his mouth crooked into an amused smile. “You're wet," he said. 

“I, um-- well, it's just that I-- er, you... I mean..."

Laughing, Richie said, “I'm not grilling you, man. I, uh... well, I'm not one to talk. It happened to me at the party the other night."

“Are you fucking serious?"

Richie nodded and Jon felt himself pinking up again.


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A groan started somewhere in the bottom of Jon’s lungs, and by the time it reached his ears, it sounded like a noise he’d heard an animal make at some point, but he couldn’t remember what animal, and he couldn’t remember if it had been a mating noise or a fight noise. 
> 
> How different were the two, anyway, with animals?

**VI**

It was four nights before Jon and Richie had the chance to be alone together again, without fear of discovery, and Jon was sure he would die of the loneliness in the interim. On night two, he had picked up the receiver of his hotel room phone, thought about calling Dorothea, but had hung up without dialing.

Richie had brushed up against him backstage the third night, locked eyes with him for just a few seconds before they were separated by a throng of bustling roadies. By the time they had gotten back to the hotel, they were both swept up into one of the afterparties, and hadn’t seen each other for the rest of the night. Jon assumed Richie was with someone, and it made him miss Dot again. He figured she was sleeping already, so he didn’t call. It was a perfectly good reason not to call. He would wait until morning. And on the morning of the fourth day, he had dialed all but one digit of Dorothea’s number, and hung up. She was probably at work. Maybe later.

That night, when he finally managed to dial the phone, it was a man’s voice that answered. “Can you come over?” Jon asked. 

“God, yes,” Richie said. 

They stood face to face next to the bed, pulling the clothes from their own bodies, dropping pants and shirts and socks into a motley pile on the thick carpet next to them.

“What do you want?” Richie started to say, his eyes round with a craving that was similar to the wicked gleam Jon had witnessed backstage, but somehow different, tempered by nerves this time. But Jon was already pulling him down into the tangle of bed sheets. He turned himself around, end to end with the other man, buried his face between Richie’s legs, reveling in the sound of the surprised, “Oh! Okay--” that came from somewhere behind him. 

Richie’s fingers dug into his hips, urging Jon to pull his body on top, and Jon pulled his mouth off his friend’s cock. “You sure you wanna do it like that?” he panted. “Dorothea says it chokes her when we do it like that.” 

He felt Richie’s fist wrap around the base of his dick, hard. “I’m not her. You try to choke me, I fight back.”

A groan started somewhere in the bottom of Jon’s lungs, and by the time it reached his ears, it sounded like a noise he’d heard an animal make at some point, but he couldn’t remember what animal, and he couldn’t remember if it had been a mating noise or a fight noise. 

How different were the two, anyway, with animals?

Jon swung his knee over and planted it above Richie’s shoulder, and Richie pulled him down into his mouth by the cock. He was using his teeth already. 

Jon bit him on the inner thigh, clamped down on that perfect expanse of skin until Richie let go. 

“I said _I’d_ fight back,” Richie said, laughing.

“You’re biting me.”

“I’m not biting you. And you fucking like it, and you know it. You’re so fucking stiff right now, you’re gonna split your skin down the middle.”

“Quit talking and fucking eat it, then.”

Jon’s knees almost flattened beneath him when Richie swallowed him again, all the way to the back of his throat. He was almost lying on the other man, chest on stomach, for lack of strength, when he managed to get Richie’s dick in his own mouth, pulling it equally deep. He felt Richie’s hand close around his balls, squeezing, exploring, his fingernails rasping into the flesh there, and then the flesh around and behind while he sucked. His fingers crawling, uninvited, toward Jon’s asshole, and still knowing he’d be allowed there if he demanded entry--

A surge like electricity snapped through Jon’s pelvis, and he flooded the waiting throat beneath him. He tried to pull out, but Richie grabbed his hips and held him there, continued sucking him while Jon whimpered and bucked against him, his sounds of mingled pain and pleasure muffled by his efforts to get Richie off as quickly as possible. It was probably only a few seconds, but it felt like eternities had elapsed while the exquisite not-quite-pain in his dick turned back into vicious arousal. By the time Richie came, Jon thought it might be possible the other man was going to force him into a second orgasm. 

He barely had enough strength in his legs to drag himself off of Richie without kneeing him in the face, and collapsed onto the bed. Richie righted himself with Jon, and wiggled in close. “You’re a dirty boy, you know that?”

Jon grinned. “Me! You’re the one who was torturing me.”

“You loved it.”

Rolling his eyes, Jon said, “I think you’re full of yourself.”

“I’m not done, either. So rest up.”

Jon felt fresh blood already moving into his cock, which both hurt, and excited him so deeply it panged something in his chest.

\--------------------------------------

When Jon opened his eyes, there was dense blackness outside the hotel windows, punctuated by the neon glow of the city still alive below. The alarm clock on the nightstand said it was 3:34 am in its piercing red digits, and when Jon’s eyes adjusted to the darkness again, after the clock, he noticed Richie was awake and watching him.

Startled, he said, “How long have you been up?”

“Not long.”

“Why are you staring at me?”

“Does it bother you?”

“Yeah, a little.”

“I wanna taste you again.”

Jon snorted. “Jesus, you’re an animal.”

Richie moved in close, started laying soft kisses over Jon’s ribs. “I’m a realist,” he whispered. “You gotta make the most of a fling when it happens.”

“Rich--” Jon started to say, but he wasn’t sure how he was going to respond anyway, and besides, Richie had his nipple pulled between his lips. It was so gentle compared to earlier, and Jon felt like he was going to climb out of his skin. He grasped the headboard. “God, that feels good.”

And then he felt Richie’s hand between his legs, lifting his balls, exploring behind again, and Jon spread his legs to allow it. “Yes...”

Richie let go of his nipple, and though it was hard to tell in the dark, Jon thought he was sucking on his own fingers. Then Richie went in for the other nipple, and Jon felt his arm between his legs again, his wet fingertips against his asshole. One of them pushing inside, just a half inch or so, and a deep-rooted titillation spread through him, like warm waves of water pulsing through his crotch. He felt impaled on the other man’s finger, his whole being reduced to this penetration.

“_God...”_

“Never done that before?”

“No--”

“Good.”

“Do it deeper.”

“I don’t think I’m wet enough. You got anything?” Richie’s voice sounded like he was smiling.

“Just hand lotion. Will that work?”

“Yep. Where is it?”

“In the bathroom.”

Richie got up to find the lotion, and Jon was sure he would simply cease to exist in the time it took him to come back. He squeezed his thighs together to try to ease the longing. 

“Open your legs.” 

Richie’s voice came to him before the man was even in view. Jon obeyed. This time, when Richie’s fingers found him, they were slick and cold. Jon grasped Richie’s hair as he leaned down to lick his cock, and he felt one of those fingers slide all the way into him, fluttering up and down inside him. 

“Oh, god, do another one--”

A brief burning as Richie pushed another finger inside him, but god it was so good. How could it be that good?

“I want to suck you off again,” Jon said, between gasps. 

“Then come around here and do it,” Richie said, rolling himself down onto the bed, his fingers still in Jon’s ass, bent inside him now, his thumb planted behind his balls, as if to keep possession of him through the transition. Jon thought he would come then and there.

Carefully, he spun around, moaning softly at the feel of Richie’s fingers twisting inside him as he moved. Richie finger-fucked him for a minute while Jon sucked, until Richie suddenly used his knees to push Jon up and off his cock. 

“Give me a second,” he said. 

“Okay,” Jon said, throwing his head back as he pushed into the continued assault from behind. “Fuck--”

Richie grabbed Jon’s dick. “Okay, go again, but real slow, okay?”

“Okay,” Jon choked. “You too, okay?”

The moment Richie’s tongue touched the head of his cock, Jon was convinced no amount of 'slow’ was slow enough. But within a few seconds, the lightning intensity had cooled enough that he thought he might have at least a minute, if he stayed absorbed in what he was doing, instead of what Richie was doing. But maybe fifteen seconds in, he said, “Stop!” 

To his relief, Richie didn’t try to force him this time, because he knew he couldn’t have resisted. The other man’s fingers stilled, but didn’t withdraw. He felt Richie’s free hand rubbing the outside of his thigh, waiting. 

And there was that pang in his chest again. For some reason, it brought with it a mental image of Dorothea, and Jon wasn’t sure why, or what he even felt about it. 

_Jesus, you’re an animal_

That’s what Richie always did. Waited. Waited to rescue Jon from the next breakup, and from the next mood swing. Waited to be needed. 

_I’m a realist. You gotta make the most of a fling when it happens_

Waiting. 

“Go,” Jon said, “and don’t stop this time, okay?”

“Okay.”

He plunged down onto the other man, feeling Richie’s mouth do the same to him, and he thought he might have actually been crying from the ferocity of it. He wasn’t sure which one of them came first.

When he slumped into the bed, they laid end to end for awhile, their breathing slowing. Finally, Jon said, so low he could barely hear it himself, “How much of a mistake would it be to say I think I might love you?”

For a minute, he thought Richie hadn’t heard, and he wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved. But then he felt the other man’s hand on his calf, drawing his leg to him. A soft, damp kiss on his ankle, followed by a playful bite. “Wanna go again?” Richie said.


	7. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon stretched his arms up above his head, pushing his palms against the headboard. “Mmm. Show me,” he said.
> 
> Richie’s whole face opened up in a smile, and he slid a hand into the open front of Jon’s pants. Arching up into the touch, Jon said, “Show me everything you know.”

**VII**

_Dorothea,_

_Has it really been almost three weeks since we broke up? I think that’s the longest we’ve ever lasted. Haha._

Jon shook his head and tore the page out of his notebook. Wadding it up, he tossed it on the floor and thought for a moment.

_Dorothea,_

_Things are different when I’m not talking to you_

Rip. Another ball of paper on the floor. Jon put his pencil to the clean blue lines of the third sheet down and pressed hard so that his letters wouldn’t shake.

_Dorothea,_

_I miss you, even though I know you probably don't miss me_

Then...

_Is that dumb of me?_

He pulled that page out and tore it into postage stamp-sized bits, letting them flutter between his fingers and into the trash can. Then he retrieved the tube of lube he’d appropriated for just such an occasion and shoved it as far down in his front jeans pocket as it would go, covering the protruding end of it with the hem of his shirt. By the time he retrieved it, it would be acclimated to his body temperature and ready for action. 

\-------------------------------------

“I thought you were never gonna fucking get here. What took you so long?”

Jon pulled his shirt off over his head. “You didn’t jack off without me, did you? 'Cuz that’ll make me real sad.” He flung the shirt at Richie’s chest. 

Scrunching his eyebrows and grinning, Richie said, “What’s got into you?”

“I got a better question: what’s about to get into me?”

Richie growled and pinned Jon to the inside of the suite door, crushing his wrists to the cold mahogany. “You know what I like about you? You’re like a live-action sex toy I get to take with me everywhere I go.”

“I know, don’t you love me for it?”

Wriggling his way out of Richie’s grip, Jon walked backwards across the suite, unfastening his pants as he went. In the doorway to the bedroom, he leaned on the jamb and threw open the front of his jeans. “What are you waiting for?” 

He whirled in place and ran and dove for the bed, just barely hitting the mound of blankets before Richie clattered in on top of him. 

“Oh! What’ve we got here?” Richie said, plucking the lubricant from Jon’s pocket. “What exactly were you expecting?”

“I wanna try something,” Jon said. 

Pulling his elbow up underneath him, Richie looked down into Jon’s eyes, studied them. “_That?”_

“I don’t know,” Jon said, fighting the urge to squirm beneath the other man’s sudden scrutiny of the inches of his face. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“You ever get off from getting fingered?”

This time, Jon not only squirmed, he wriggled all the way out from underneath his friend. “I, um... _what?"_

“I take it that’s a no, then?”

“No! I mean. Well, you’re the only one who’s ever done that, so...”

“Really?”

“Is that weird?”

Richie puckered up his lip a little in thought. “Well, no, not really, I guess. I kinda like it.” He laid a hand over Jon’s hip and pulled him in closer until their bodies melted together. 

Jon folded an arm up and laid his head on it. “What did you mean about... you know...”

“Getting off?”

“Yeah.”

“Just what I said.”

“Yeah, but-- _how?_”

Smiling, Richie said, “I could show you.”

Heat swelled up into Jon’s face. He hated it that Richie could make him blush so easily. Richie was never embarrassed. About anything. Jon talked to try to interrupt the thought loop that was sending blood into every millimeter of the skin above his collarbone. “I just don’t...” But Richie was already easing him down onto his back. “I don’t see how...”

“I can draw you a diagram, if you want,” Richie said.

Jon rolled his eyes and shook his head, tried to pretend he didn’t mind not knowing the details. That he was mellow enough to enjoy something without fully _getting_ it. That he was cool with Richie having that particular power over him. But the heat was still full in his face.

Richie’s hand was still tight on his hip. “It’s different from getting off with your dick. You’d have to feel it to believe it, man.”

“How do you know all this?”

And then, to Jon’s surprise, a faint pinkness crept up into Richie’s face. 

“This chick I used to know when I was, like, twenty. She was older. She knew shit. It was fucking great, man.”

A swirl of things caught up in the space below Jon’s ribs-- excitement and anxiety-- and he closed his eyes for a few seconds. Tried to deny that jealousy was among the shapeless things fighting for space in his belly. “How’s it ‘different’?” he whispered.

“Man, it’s like... your whole fucking body feels it. It’s _deep._ And it doesn’t stop, man. You can keep on doing it, if you keep on going after it. Or do one after another. Like a chick."

Jon stretched his arms up above his head, pushing his palms against the headboard. “Mmm. Show me,” he said.

Richie’s whole face opened up in a smile, and he slid a hand into the open front of Jon’s pants. Arching up into the touch, Jon said, “Show me everything you know.”

“Say it again.”

“Show me everything you know,” Jon said, his voice dropping into a groan as the other man wrapped eager fingers around his dick. 

“Again.”

“I want you inside me, showing me things. I want you to open me up and own me.”

“Ahh, now _that’s_ a good boy,” Richie purred, and pulled Jon’s pants down. Jon kicked them off his feet and onto the floor. Spread his legs. 

“_Fuck,"_ Richie said. “That’s a very good boy.” He opened the lube and made a show of drizzling it onto his entire hand. 

Jon felt his eyes stretch round, and his thigh muscles twitched with the urge to close up. But when Richie came in, he seized his dick again. 

“Relax, I’m not gonna rape you. I like it when you trust me. Do you trust me?”

“God, yes,” Jon said, the slippery push and pull of his friend’s hand sending shivers through his whole torso. 

“How much do you trust me? Two fingers again? Three?”

“Keep talking,” Jon panted, “and it’ll be your cock.”

“Oh, I think you’re ready now,” Richie said, grinning, and adding more lube to his hand. “Up we go.” He pushed Jon’s legs up, bracing a forearm behind his knees, and slipped two fingers in his ass. “Where is it?” 

Jon’s eyes rolled back and he writhed against the intrusion. “I don’t know--”

“Yes you do,” Richie said, scrutinizing the inside of Jon with his fingertips.

“_Fuck--”_

“There it is!”

Jon felt the muscles in his thighs twitching again, but this time his legs only wanted to spread open wider in response. He felt Richie withdraw the arm from behind his legs and use the hand to lift his balls and push into the spot behind them, maybe with his knuckles, Jon wasn’t sure, because a riptide of pleasure was suddenly rolling through his body and he lost the entire contents of his thoughts.

He realized a moment too late that he was yelling. Moaning and yelling obscenities, in Richie’s suite. The floor was cleared of guests, except for the band, but the _band_ were up here, and all their people.

Richie tightened his grip and kept going. And Jon’s thoughts were wiped again. 

He wasn’t sure if the scream came first, or the unholy pulsating in his lower belly that was starting to vibrate faster than his lover’s hands were moving.

_lover_

His body bucked against the onslaught. He was moaning now, and his throat was raw, the moan coming out in a rasp, and he knew he’d been screaming more than he realized. It just wasn’t-- stopping--

_lover_

A crest of ecstasy crashed through Jon’s body like waves of warm water, and he felt the come draining from him onto his own stomach and chest. Not stopping.

_lover_

“Oh, god,” he croaked, attempting to push Richie away, but Richie didn’t stop.

“No you don’t, I’m just getting warmed up.”

A single thought appeared to Jon’s mind, that his temples were wet, like he’d been releasing unrecognized tears. He took a quick swipe at each side right as the frenzy started building inside him again. And he almost spoke the words again, the ones he had craftily spoken yet avoided the last time.

_Wanna go again?_ Richie had responded. He didn’t feel the same.

But he was staring at Jon now, as though hypnotized by the pleasure the other man was feeling. His ministrations were so thorough.

_Wanna go again?_

Jon came again, sudden and harder, longer, and he surrendered his entire consciousness to it to make it last as long as possible. 

_Wanna go again?_

When it was done, he pushed Richie away, and this time Richie let him. He laid down next to Jon while both their breathing slowed. 

Jon picked up a corner of sheet and wiped the come off himself, trying not to speak, because he knew whatever he said, it would be the wrong thing. 

Finally, it was Richie who spoke. “You miss her, don’t you?”

And Jon knew in that moment how right the other man was. “Yeah,” he said. Then, when he was done erasing the evidence of his pleasure, he said, “Now I get to do you?”


	8. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Richie broke away, Jon said, “Do you love me?”
> 
> And he thought he could almost hear his friend’s heart thudding in the darkness.

**VIII**

“What do you want tonight?”

Richie grazed his fingertips up and down the length of Jon’s upper arm, before he slipped his arm around the other man’s stomach and pulled him back into himself. Jon burrowed down further into the embrace and the pillows. He stared out into the darkness of the room, at the silhouettes of the furniture piled with guitar cases and luggage. This was his life. _Their_ life. 

“This,” Jon said.

“What else?”

“I wanna taste you again.”

A chill swept in behind Jon as Richie pulled away from him, urged him onto his back. The lips that touched his were on the cusp of familiarity already, the tongue that was flavored with the cigarettes and whiskey they’d shared earlier knew exactly how to move to bring him alive, whether here on his mouth, or elsewhere on his body. 

When Richie broke away, Jon said, “Do you love me?”

And he thought he could almost hear his friend’s heart thudding in the darkness. 

“Of course I do, you know that,” Richie said.

It was friendship love Richie meant. Jon knew he was purposely avoiding the real meaning of the question, but he didn’t know why. One way, it complicated things and crushed his soul. The other way, it _really_ complicated things and made him feel... 

happy? Terrified?

Jon decided he didn’t really want to know anymore. If Richie didn’t want to tell him, that was his prerogative. Jon would just have to capitulate. Settle for the taste of the man, and hope it stayed forever in his mouth.

He twisted himself around, opposite to Richie, and pushed the man’s boxers down. Took him into his mouth, as he felt Richie do the same to him, deep and unafraid. The actions, if not the words, were unafraid. There was that.

Jon dropped down, to the back of his throat, and sucked hard, trying to own as much of the man as possible, and Richie squirmed, attempting to pull away a bit, groaning against Jon’s cock. Jon dug his fingertips into the insides of the man’s thighs, letting his nails bite into the skin before dragging them upward toward Richie’s balls. Richie pulled off of Jon and pushed Jon’s head off him.

“Stop,” he breathed. “I don’t want to go yet.”

When he resumed, his own fingernails were digging into Jon’s ass, and the backs of his thighs within seconds, and Jon had a sudden thought that they were _owning_ each other somehow, and he almost came just at the thought, so he pushed Richie away while he tried to blank his mind. 

As soon as he gave permission to proceed, Richie had a hold of his balls, rough, squeezing and tugging, and Jon broke off Richie’s dick long enough to catch his breath. “Ah! _God--_”

And then his mind wandered back to it, that he was owning and being owned, he couldn’t stop the thought from consuming him, from sending waves of heat through his belly. And the more the thought consumed him, the rougher and more vehement his actions became, and Richie’s in return, and the more they made each other stop, to keep from coming too soon. To make it last as long as possible. Jon didn’t know if it was a game to Richie or not, but for him, he just knew it couldn’t end. Not tonight. 

He felt Richie’s fingers creeping toward his asshole, fingers already wet from having participated in the blowjob, and he drew back long enough to say, “Do it.”

It hurt this time, and it felt good. He was tense against the trespass, but he wanted it all the more, and groaned in encouragement, knowing the vibration of his mouth around Richie’s cock would make the man crazy. And then they had to stop again. Jon had no idea how many times they’d gone at it, but he was pretty sure one of them was going to spontaneously combust at some point, if they didn’t finish it soon. 

The only reason Jon decided he wanted it to end was sheer physical exhaustion. And when he said, “Don’t stop this time,” and heard the relief in Richie’s affirmative, he knew the other man was feeling the same. 

It was the hardest he’d ever come in his life.

By the time he crawled back to the top of the bed, and laid beside Richie, he was crying. He was beyond thankful for the darkness. 

“I can’t believe we held out that long,” he said, trying to sound light. 

“Twelve times,” Richie said.

Jon let the comment sink into him. Richie was keeping score on some level, too. Wanting it to last, taking mental mementos from it. Jon almost climbed up onto him, went for broke, said the things. All of them. But Richie spoke first. 

“Did you call her yet?” 

“No.”

“What are you waiting for?”

Jon was silent. Tried to relax his throat so his voice would come out steady, and Richie wouldn’t know he was crying and ask questions. Tried to decide how to answer the question.

“What about... you know-- _this?”_ he said, finally.

There was silence again, this time on Richie’s end. Then, “What about it?”

“When I get back with her, what happens with us?”

He felt Richie kiss him on the side of his head in the blackness. “It’s a fling, Jonny. I never meant to get between you guys.”

Jon felt the bed shift, and he knew Richie had sat up. He almost reached out for him, almost pulled him back, but he didn’t. When Richie spoke again, the sound of his voice indicated he was standing.

“You should call her,” he said. And then there were the rustling noises of jeans being dragged on. “I’m gonna go, okay?”

“Okay,” Jon said, and this time his voice wasn’t steady. He knew Richie heard it, too, but the other man didn’t let on. A flash of light poured in from around the corner, outside the bedroom, what must have been the hallway lights as Richie let himself out the suite door.

And just like that, it was over.

**END**


End file.
